


She Knows So Much

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Obsession, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Sexual Content, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-18 13:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: Villanelle isn't there except in the form of gifts, and one day she is.





	1. What Are You Doing Here?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viagiordano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viagiordano/gifts).



> This one is for two people: Dani and my local friend Kyrene, who both wanted some hate sex between these two and this came out. It was also an excuse for me to write Eve wielding a frying pan; I found that image hilarious. 
> 
> Content warning: Just sex.

For an entire year there were gifts. They were sporadic, no set schedule, and some would appear within weeks of each other while others would be months apart. They varied, too. February’s was a red parka, like a pomegranate, with down on the inside, and a few weeks after there were red roses with no note attached. April’s was a postcard from Brussels and Eve had watched the BBC day and night for news of some big crime but there had been nothing, and so on, until now.

            It was November and winter was getting ready to properly settle in. Eve felt the air get sharper teeth on her morning commute to Thames House, when she was holding Starbucks between her hands in an attempt to keep warm. Her landlord had inspectors come over and make sure the radiators would be working properly, and she had to start turning them on at night. The trees were skeletal and half-naked. And there were holiday-themed things starting to pop up everywhere, though she was thankful public places weren’t playing Christmas music yet. She didn’t need that annoyance a month early.

            Work, after her demotion, was still its steady, almost-boring thing, with a few small things that tended to pique her interest but would, unfortunately, not hold it for long. She still thought of Villanelle, had kept the things the bastard sent her—but she wouldn’t tell anyone that—and studied them with a mixture of rage and longing and guilt. It made her feel like a kettle sitting on a stove for too long; it was only a matter of time before she’d whistle and boil over.

 

—

 

“This came for you.”

            Eve spun around in her chair, relieved to have some reprieve from the latest paperwork. It was a good thirty pages that she had to card through, filled with dense reports that reminded her of her college psychology classes, where the prose was almost illegible. Her partner, Anthony Blake, passed by her desk and handed her a small package. She caught a whiff of his dinner—a burger and fries, probably drenched in brown sauce—and her stomach made an embarrassingly loud growl. She hadn’t eaten since 11:30 that morning and all it had been was a small deli sandwich and a Coke from the shop just three blocks away.

            “What’s your status?” Eve asked him, fingers tearing at the brown paper. The package was thin and felt almost like a book.

            “Another twenty-five pages and then I’ll have to string things together,” said Anthony. “Who knew those close reading assignments would’ve done me good?”

            Eve snorted. “God.”

            The package was a box, as it turned out, with Rolex printed in professional white letters atop it. Something swam up her throat at the word and she had to force it down, not give away anything.

            Inside was a postcard. The picture was black and white, and two women stood in front of Big Ben, wearing clothes from a century ago, their smiles bright against their dark lipstick. On the back, in handwriting Eve saw in her dreams, was, _Six o’clock._ And underneath the postcard was a watch. Its band was skinny but made of silver and gold, the face of the watch, underneath its glass, silver, and around it were four tiny—but undeniably real—diamonds. It was already ticking away and read 5:30.

            “How… Anthony, who—who gave this to you?”

            “The postman,” Anthony replied around a mouthful.

            “Man?”

            “Uh-huh. Why?”

            Eve didn’t answer. She rushed to gather the report and stuff it into her satchel, and put the watch and postcard in there too. Anthony called after her but Eve didn’t turn round. He didn’t need to know about this part of her life. There was a chance he would let other people know, and Eve would have to come forward.

            The tube would take too long. Eve hailed a cab instead and, when she was settled in the backseat, told him her address and to step on it. Her commute to work was only fifteen minutes by tube, twenty-five by car. Each stop in traffic that lasted longer than three minutes made her heart nearly come flying through her teeth, along with acid. A whole goddamn year and this _asshole_ sends her gifts, taunts, and is now finally in London? Eve crushed the strap of her satchel between her fingers. She hoped Villanelle’s scar was still new enough that, when she pressed it or hit it, it would hurt.

            Eve dug the watch from her satchel. It was beautiful, shining and expensive. Small. Enough to make a statement, if it were on her wrist, but not overpowering. Eve knew very little about this particular brand of watch, but she did know that they were a Swiss brand, and costed more money than she made in two months. She could just throw it out the window and let the car behind them crush it underneath its wheel, but something about it wouldn’t allow her. Too beautiful to break? Or was it because she’d already broken something beautiful and couldn’t do it again?

            She paid the driver when he pulled up to her apartment complex and rushed out, clumsy with fear and adrenaline and barely-contained anger. She stomped up the stairs, unlocked her door, opened it slowly. She was met with dinner smells: garlic, basil, onions, baking bread and cooking pasta. Italian music was playing softly from a phone or maybe Eve’s 18-year-old radio. It smelled delicious. It made her mouth water. But even so, she knew the woman who was making that food, and instead of eating it she would spit in it, or toss it all at Villanelle’s expensive clothes and her smug, impassive face.

            Eve peered around the corner and there she was. Villanelle. In the flesh. Healthy-looking, hair still its honey color, wearing an expensive pomegranate red sweater paired with dark jeans. She was barefoot, and her toenails matched her sweater. She stirred something in a frying pan and it sizzled.

            Then she was looking right at Eve, and her face got lighter. “Oh,” she said, brandishing one of Eve’s wooden spoons, “I see you got my note. What did you think of the watch?”

            “I’d never wear it,” Eve said, swallowing, limbs frozen to her floors despite the warmth inside her apartment. Words swam in her brain and stomped on her tongue but were stuck. She’d dreamed and dreamed of seeing Villanelle in person and always she would pounce on sight, curse at her, but in dreams she possessed the confidence that took a while to show its balls in reality. And here Villanelle was, looking grand as ever, like nothing had happened, while Eve was still stuck in a tumult of lost husband lost career lost best friend.

            “I suppose I don’t blame you.” Villanelle dipped the spoon into the frying pan and the tip came away red. She swiped her index finger through it and put it between her lips. She hummed. “Come here,” she said, “and taste this. I think it’s missing something.”

            Limbs stiff but thawing, Eve made her way over, willing herself not to tremble. She took the spoon and tasted the last remnant of sauce. It was like something out of the finest restaurants in Florence, but yes, it was missing something, something with aroma. “Rosemary,” Eve said at last.

            “And I thought your husband was the cook.” Villanelle opened the spice cabinet to her right.

            “Ex-husband,” Eve corrected.

            Villanelle’s hand hovered over the rosemary. “That’s rough, Eve. I’m sorry.”

            There was that warm hand, again, settling on hers, squeezing her fingers, thumb rubbing in false sympathy, false warmth, and there was that kettle whistle, the lid rattling atop it as the boiling water underneath spilled over the sides. She took one step forward and shoved Villanelle, hard, away from her. She collided with the counter opposite with a grunt of both pain and surprise, the container of rosemary open. It had vomited on the counter and Villanelle’s arm in the collision.

            Villanelle looked at her, her face a mask of amusement and something darker. She said, “If we’re going to fight, can I at least turn the stove off?”

            Eve nodded.

            Villanelle shook her hand off at the sink and returned to the stove, turning the knobs until they clicked.

            Eve’s hands strangled her satchel strap. Her breathing was rough. “Why now, Oksana?” she questioned.

            “You’re a modern woman, Eve; you should know when someone goes by a certain name, you call them that name.” She smiled. “You’re still so angry with me, aren’t you?”

            “Why now?” Eve repeated loudly. “It’s been a year and you send me taunts—”

            “—I wouldn’t call them that—”

            “—probably because you had no—no _stones_ to come back sooner.”

            Villanelle put a hand to her chest. “I’m insulted, Eve.”

            “What, your making of dinner is proof you _do_ have a set?”

            “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            Eve scoffed, almost laughed. Her legs felt shaky. “Bullshit.” A pause, and Villanelle’s expression turned serious. “You came all this way from wherever and you don’t want to hurt me?”

            She was silent for a long moment, chewing her lip, expression turning stonier by the second. “No,” said Villanelle softly. “I thought about it, wanted to at first, spent six months dreaming and thinking it, actually, but no, Eve, I am not here to hurt you.” She jerked her chin to the stove, where dinner was slowly getting cold. “I’d have thought that would be obvious.”

            “I _stabbed_ you,” Eve said, stepping forward again while letting her satchel slide from her arm and to the floor, noticing Villanelle tense but make no move to protect herself.

            “You did.”

            “That doesn’t upset you?”

            “Has your desk monkey job made you slow?”

            Eve opened her hands, barely aware of the pain from stiffness, and struck Villanelle square in the chest. They made a _thump_ sound and Villanelle groaned, grabbing her wrists, trying to stop her, but Eve managed to get one free and strike her in the mouth. There was another groan and wide eyes and then she was free. Eve grabbed the frying pan off the stove, the sauce slopping over the side and onto the floor. She was holding it like she would a baseball bat.

            “What’re you going to do with that?” Villanelle asked, looking amused. A drop of blood slid from her lower lip and onto her chin. She was so calm, so unaffected…

            Eve threw it, aiming right at Villanelle’s head. She ducked, and the pan impacted with the cabinet, red dots of sauce flying every which way.

            “Say something!” Eve shouted. “You’re supposed to be shouting at me!” Her hands searched for something else, found the pot of pasta, flung that in Villanelle’s direction too. It fell a foot short of its intended target with a _thunk_ , noodles spilling like innards across the tile.

            “Eve,” Villanelle said, stepping to her, “you need to relax.”

            “Don’t you want to hurt me?”

            “I told you—”

            “Stab me too?”

            There was a growl and then she was pinned to the opposite wall with such force it momentarily knocked the breath from her lungs, made fear crawl back into her body. Villanelle’s fists clenched her coat, and even through the thicker wool Eve felt them keeping threatening pressure on her chest.

            “I’m not here to _hurt you_ , Eve, you stupid idiot,” Villanelle said.  “Can’t you be civil?”

            “Why are you here if you don’t want to stab me back? After all I… all I did to you?”

            “I can’t drop in and say hello to you? Make you dinner so that you’re not eating something shitty?”

            Eve aimed for her face again but found the move easily blocked, her arm twisted artfully behind her back, and oh, this was so wrong, going so very wrong. Villanelle was supposed to come bearing hellfire and rage in her eyes and slip her own knife into Eve, pay her back, tell her the score was even, leave her to crawl to the phone to dial an ambulance, not make her fucking dinner and joke with her like nothing had happened in Paris.

            It took all her strength to push Villanelle away, and they both stumbled, trapped in each other’s grips, falling to the clean side of the floor. Her vision tunneled, Eve struck Villanelle again, this time in the jaw, putting her whole body behind it, but the sound that escaped Villanelle’s lips wasn’t of pain but pleasure, and Eve could only stare, open-mouthed, the shock settling over her like ice water. Her knee had, somehow, slipped between Villanelle’s legs.

            “A-Are you _serious_?” she said. “Are you fucking serious? You want _that?_ Still?”

            “You sound surprised,” Villanelle said, sounding a little more breathless than she was a moment ago.

            “I don’t… I don’t understand you.” This wasn’t supposed to be about pleasure, goddammit, it was supposed to be about hurting Villanelle, about revenge. She couldn’t understand how Villanelle could still want her after she’d nearly ruined her life, taken it away, broke her trust, didn’t understand any of it, _couldn’t_. Yet this had happened to her too, with Bill. She’d hated Villanelle and simultaneously admired her, and for months she meditated on this woman, thought of her mouth and her eyes and wondered who she was with, if she was having sex or showering or waiting, statue stiff, with her finger poised on a trigger. She hated her and wanted her. She hates her still and wants her all the more.

            Eve crashed their lips together. She tasted blood, Villanelle’s, warm and metallic, and the surprised but pleasured sound that escaped Villanelle’s mouth. Eve pressed her to the floor, over and over, kissing her all the while, hating how good it felt.

            “You absolute bastard,” Eve whispered. “You… _shit_.” She fisted Villanelle’s hair, tugging it, hoping it hurt.

            “You are such a schoolgirl in your fighting methods, Eve Polastri,” Villanelle breathed.

            “You’re a dick.”

            “Yet you’re still kissing me.”

            “I hate you.”

            Another kiss.

            “You don’t.”

            And another.

            “I do.”

            Villanelle was smiling into the kiss. “You don’t.”

            Eve growled, tugged her hair harder until Villanelle audibly winced, wanting to hurt her enough to bruise her but not bring her close to death. It happened once, that single violent act, and it was over the line, and she had regretted it; there was no need for it to happen again.

            “I wanted to kill you,” Eve admitted. She had Villanelle’s wrists trapped in both her hands now and was staring into hazel eyes that were alive with want. “I tried to.”

            “Kill me now, Eve.” Her breathing was labored and the tone in her voice was one Eve hadn’t heard. It wasn’t the heartbroken, whispery one she’d used on her own bed, with Eve’s knife in her gut. It was one of desire, of absolute want.

            “How fucking Shakespearean of you,” Eve said, chuckling, and god, why did this woman always manage to get a chuckle out of her? She bit down on Villanelle’s already split lip and released her wrists to undo the button on Villanelle’s jeans. Her hands were shaky, leftover adrenaline mixing with arousal and nervousness. It came undone with a soft sound and the zipper was nearly deafening. She placed her palm just above the waistband, hesitating.

            “Eve,” Villanelle whispered. “Go on.”

            “I shouldn’t.”

            “ _Merde_ ,” Villanelle groaned, her head thrown back for a short moment.

            Something curled inside her stomach, something hot, satisfying, liking the way Villanelle looked under her, eyes wild but completely focused, her breathing betraying her barely-in-check self-control. “Why shouldn’t I just leave you here? Or—or ask you to fuck off?”

            “You’d miss me.”

            In a way, Eve had missed her. As much as one could miss an assiholic assassin who killed your best friend and cost you a husband and a career too. Her life had felt empty but tense, like she was in the frantic months in the middle of a missing persons case except it was the kind where she didn’t give up hope, because Villanelle was out there, and the proof had been in her taunts. And in the later months, when high-profile kills began to speckle the news with Villanelle’s flair written all over them.

            “I wouldn’t,” Eve said, slipping her hand, at last, into the parted jeans, feeling warm silk and then wetness. “I don’t—don’t miss evil people.” God her fingers slid so easily. “Why are you here?”

            “Eve…”

            “Tell me that much.”

            “Stop hovering.” Villanelle reached down, grabbed her wrist.

            “Tell me.” Villanelle’s fingers were warm, slightly clammy. There was desperation about her breathing now, and her eyes looked almost glassy. But she said nothing. Frustrated, Eve sighed, slid her fingers roughly inside.

            “Eve,” Villanelle said, in a half-moan, her body jerking, her hands finding Eve’s hair and it was almost like Eve had been stabbed herself; the moan settled in her abdomen, and there was a sharp beat between her thighs. Yet she set it aside, putting all her anger and frustration and grief behind her inexperienced movements, relishing Villanelle’s warm breath against her lips, her moans, the way her hips twitched. Even in ecstasy she was alluring, and Eve found herself cursing quietly under her breath, though at Villanelle or the world or this situation, she didn’t know.

            Despite the obvious anger behind her ministrations, Villanelle was enjoying it.

            Eve’s stomach twisted into a hot knot and it only got tighter because it was wrong to revel in this, wrong to be with her like this, hanging on every gasp, the way Villanelle’s breathing stuttered in her chest when she moaned—

            Her hand stilled and Villanelle lay back, panting, glowing.

            It had been about pleasure, then, after all.


	2. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to bargalaxies, to whom I'd promised eyebleach. Strangely, this chapter is softer than I'd originally meant it to be; sorry if that's not up everyone's alley. Thank you for reading, and for your comments!

_And I would come to you, to watch the television screen_

_in your hotel room_

Florence & the Machine, _June_

—

Two weeks from Christmas, Eve was walking home from a particularly late night at Thames House—it was almost midnight, not the latest she’d had to stay up for work—when she got a call from an unknown number. Tired, delirious, head swimming with near-unreadable reports and bloody images from a domestic violence case, she was thinking it was work, and was surprised to hear Villanelle’s voice on the other end of the line.

            _“Do you want to do dinner?”_

Eve almost stopped in the middle of the sidewalk but had to keep going; she’d freeze more if she stood still. “You do realize what time it is, don’t you?”

            _“I can read clocks, Eve. You don’t have to stick to a schedule if you don’t want to.”_

“Where are you?”

            _“Nearby.”_ A pause. Eve could hear someone talking on the other end of the line, and staticky orchestral music.

            “Are you watching a movie?” she asked. If Villanelle was in London, at this hour, it could mean one or two things. She’d killed someone earlier and the news hadn’t yet broken out and she was winding down at her hotel, or she was taking time before committing her murder.

            _“If you hurry, you’ll be in time to see the best part.”_

She gave Eve the name of her hotel: 45 Park Lane—such an original name, wasn’t it? Eve had passed it once or twice, usually without a second thought, but upon pulling up to it in the back of a taxi, she was gaping at the luxury of the outside. Of course Villanelle would choose such a place; it was next to Hyde Park, where she could go for a run, if she wanted to (and would she, in such cold weather?), and it wasn’t far from restaurants and shopping either.

            The inside was where the real luxury was. It was modern—the epitome of it—and spacious, the décor like something out of a magazine. Nicely-dressed staff flitted here and there, carrying trays or rolling carts of food, or binders, or bags, people who were obviously rich following behind them. Eve scoffed at the place, its people, and mumbled, “Now you’re just showing off.” She made her way to room 404 and hesitated at the knock. There were things she could be doing other than this. The domestic violence case. Other work-related things. Yet she was here, seeing the woman who had caused a downfall, and then some. She had to be out of her mind. With a huge sigh, she raised her fist and knocked twice.

            Villanelle answered the door wearing a comfortable but expensive-looking sweater and jeans and bare feet. Her hair was damp and even if there was a foot between them Eve still caught a whiff of the shampoo: citrus, with a hint of mint. Obviously standard-issue. On anyone else the smell would be ordinary.

            “Eve,” said Villanelle, and Eve pushed past her into the room. There were views of Hyde Park from every window, looking like a winter wonderland with its snow-covered grounds and trees and couples strolling through it bearing umbrellas. The room smelled like food, and she rounded the corner to find a room service cart, half of it filled with empty plates, the other half with full ones.

            “Come on then,” Villanelle said, settling back on the bed. “I’ve saved you a steak. It’s from the American steakhouse on the ground floor.”

            Eve took her shoes and coat off and left both by the ridiculous desk chair. Hesitantly, she slid into the king bed next to Villanelle, who handed her a plate and silverware. The steak and accompanying fries were still warm.

            On the television in front of them was _Casa Blanca,_ paused at the scene in the bar before the patrons sing _La Marseillaise_.

            Eve opened her mouth to ask, “Why is this the best part?” but Villanelle shushed her, said, “Try the steak,” and pressed play.

            Eve scoffed. She cut into the still-warm meat, which split apart almost like butter, revealing a juicy and pink inside, and when she chewed the bite it melted away in her mouth, flavors exploding across her tongue. A bottle of sauce had come with it but the steak didn’t need it. She swallowed and sighed, “God that’s the best steak I’ve had in my life.” Villanelle’s attention was on the screen but there was a very small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Eve zeroed in on it. She’d seen Villanelle smile before but it was always taunting or impressed, never… tender, if that’s what this one could be called. She had never thought of Villanelle as tender until she’d tucked a strand of Eve’s hair behind her ear that day in Paris, or until now. But, she thought, starting on the fries now, underneath that rare tenderness was something deadly and cold and calculating.

            She focused on the screen and the French national anthem being sung by the patrons. Eve had only seen this movie a handful of times but she still thought this was the most poignant scene of them all. Something raw. Something not found in other films.

            “Very powerful, isn’t it?” Villanelle murmured when the scene came to a close. “You know the crying woman wasn’t faking it?”

            “No,” Eve admitted around a fry, “I didn’t.” She finished her late-night meal in silence and stacked the dirty plates back on the room service cart. She felt awkward, sitting next to Villanelle, who looked so comfortable, unguarded but alert. Is this how she always looked, in her free time? Winding down with movies? Or calm after murdering someone, or fucking someone boneless? It brought to mind last month, where Eve had nearly done that, where they’d had angry but passionate sex on her kitchen floor. God, passionate… there was no other way to describe it.

            “Are you a cuddler?” Villanelle asked suddenly.

            “What?”

            Villanelle fluffed her pile of pillows and leaned back against them, patting the space next to her. “I won’t bite you, Eve.”

            The idea of laying her head on this woman’s shoulder was as insane as the one where Eve had decided to stab her, yet she took the chance. She crawled slowly to Villanelle’s side of the bed and settled next to her. This close, she smelled the shampoo and Villanelle’s skin, a mix of standard-issue soap and something so undeniably _her_. Snakes coiled in her gut and hissed when their shoulders touched. She didn’t lay her head on Villanelle’s shoulder, nor did she let their hands touch between them. There was fear, and strangeness, and a low hum of arousal and no matter how much she tried to hold her attention to the movie it was turned elsewhere. There had been the almost-kiss in Paris and then the knife, and then a year later a proper kiss and hateful intimacy and now there was this, no knife, no sex. Just existence.

            “Why am I here?” Eve asked.

            “Aren’t you lonely, Eve?”

            Being married for eighteen years, you got used to having someone to come home to, someone to sleep beside, make love with, share meals with, share a life with, and it was all gone. Her apartment was empty except for her clutter. No one cooked dinner. The other side of her bed was cold. Sometimes the loneliness didn’t get to her; she would be content, almost happy, and then, like a hailstorm, it would come from nowhere and she would lie in bed, feeling like someone was taking a piano wire and wrapping it around her chest until she could only wheeze. There were times when she was tempted by that loneliness to reach out to a friend she hadn’t spoken to in months and ask to stay at their place, just to wake up to the sound of someone making coffee and breakfast with the BBC running in the background. But she’d settled for chocolate and wine, a woman’s post-breakup and post-stabbed-someone-and-regretted-it friend.

            Eve figured that, by inviting her here, Villanelle was showing an honest side of herself, and so it was only fair to be honest in return. She said, softly, “Yes.”

            Villanelle’s pinky finger brushed over the back of her hand, sending sparks. “Do you want me to stay for a little bit?”

            Eve let out a half-laugh. “It’s your damn room; shouldn’t I be asking that question?”

            “I can afford another.”

            “Please,” Eve scoffed, “you can afford this whole hotel.”

            Villanelle clicked her tongue, turned back to the movie, which was almost over. “I’m sure I’d have to be someone higher up if I wanted to buy this thing.” Her little finger was still kissing Eve’s hand. Eve was watching the movement, fascinated, and when she looked at Villanelle at last she was looking right back, her eyes glowing, her face so close. And like she had in Paris, she tucked a strand of hair behind Eve’s ear, and it was Eve who initiated the kiss. It was soft, exploratory, almost like a sigh. They parted once to breathe the same air and dove back in, lips hungrier now, teeth sinking into lips, hands wandering from faces to shoulders to hips.

            “Take your clothes off,” Eve murmured, and worked on her own with shaking hands. It was quick and before she knew it Villanelle was looming over her, a sculpture emerging from shadow that pressed against her with a loud sigh. She felt wonderful and terrible at once and perhaps that wrongness was what allowed Eve to let herself be trapped and devoured, because she desired it so. And how long, how much, had she thought of having Villanelle like this? A year. A month. Perhaps since that day in her kitchen. Perhaps since always.

            “I shouldn’t stay,” Eve said afterwards. The credits had stopped rolling and there was just the DVD menu, the white light a spotlight on Villanelle, who was watching her carefully. In it, her eyes looked frighteningly silver. Eve left the bed and its warmth and slipped her clothes and shoes back on. There was this conflict, still. Part of her wanted to stay just to see what would happen—sleeping? More sex? Staying awake studying each other without speaking?—but the other part of her wanted to escape the cloying room and the intoxicating woman and her allure.

            “You can do as you like, Eve.” Her voice was strangely soft. “Will I see you on Christmas?”

            “God.” Eve stared at the ceiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

            “You too.”

            She blushed at the compliment and found she couldn’t look at Villanelle anymore. She slung her bag over her shoulder. Even assassins knew that gesture meant she’d made up her mind. “Thank you for the steak,” she said, and made her way out the door.

            Eve didn’t leave right away. She stood outside the closed door, listening to the movement inside the room (rustling sheets, maybe the sound of Villanelle wrapping herself in a bathrobe) and her lips began to tingle. Did loneliness count if you were longing for a kiss even though, moments earlier, you’d had more than one?

            “Goodnight,” she whispered.

            There was a pause. And an answer. “Goodnight, Eve.”


End file.
